


Midnight Decisions

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: They stand together, overlooking Wentworth's courtyard, with the rain that promises a torrential downpour to come. Perhaps, it should be better described that Joan is behind Vera, her gloved fingers delicately stroking that exposed throat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a one shot smut fic for all you freakytits lovers out there. I'm working on a bigger fic for them... But in the meantime, I'll be cranking out a few more one shots. The fic title is inspired by Sia's ' Midnight Decisions. ' A beautiful sort of slow burn song. Enjoy!

It always begins like this: alone, together, in the night.

At this point, Deputy Governor Vera Bennett has worked a double shift. Perhaps, a triple. Time has a funny way of blending and blurring together here at Wentworth. Ever a sympathetic soul, she switched shifts with Fletch. The long, arduous shifts affected his recovery; so she thought and so it goes.

At this time, most of the women are sound asleep in their cells, the shadow of the bars warped and twisted across their slumbering faces. Despite herself, Vera draws her arms across her torso. It's an old habit she never could afford to break, holding herself to assure that she was real flesh and bone, a body overlooking the rain that goes plink, plink, _plink_ against the window.

“I never liked the rain,” Vera confesses in the midnight hour, her pleasant voice feathery.

“I rather enjoy it,” Joan counters once she steps out of the darkness. It's wondrous to Vera how she manages to appear out of thin air. _What an anomaly._ “The sound is calming, as though the world is being cleansed of its filth, but one could only be so hopeful, Vera.”

It is the only optimism that Governor Joan Ferguson permits of herself.

Yes, the rain is clean, but it's dark like her shrouded mind. She likes the rain, because it is very much like her whereas Vera resembles the sun: too bright, too burning should she try to hold the petite, slender woman. It's wrong to think of these things, wronger still to feel this way.

With a ghostly smile, Vera's hands rest on top of the glass, these large windows that project an image of the prison's yard with the slick concrete glistening below them. She hums off-key, creating a song of her own, a song of thought rather than an adequate verbal response.

Vera can make out her muted reflection projected onto the glass. It's a faint resemblance. She wonders how her bun became so tight, but she already knows since her sea blue eyes are searching for the taller, older woman that looms behind her. She should feel suffocated, smothered, by the authoritative presence. Instead, Vera welcomes it. Welcomes Joan into her heart and it's almost too much to bear.

Joan approaches. Her purposeful stride brings her into the light, the same light that floods the courtyard in a dim way that's meant to conserve energy. It looks like the crowns upon her shoulders are shining, gleaming gold and Vera almost giggles at the thought. She feels foolish to romanticize her boss, her something and her nothing, in this way.

They stand together, overlooking Wentworth's courtyard, with the rain that promises a torrential downpour to come. Perhaps, it should be better described that Joan is behind Vera, her gloved fingers delicately stroking that exposed throat.

So much can be conveyed through a single touch.

Vera opens her mouth, as though to speak. Suddenly, the Governor kisses her. It's the affliction of midnight where the heart is laid bare and the pain, raw and festering, is snuffed out by the taste of desire. Joan tastes like benediction and rigid indoctrination. Joan tastes like how a sterile home feels, purposeful and worn. Vera curses herself, because she's already fallen hard.

Joan's eyes are a rich obsidian that shines.

She watches Vera watching her.

Saying nothing, saying everything.

What would her father say about this? Ivan lives on inside her head, berating her and reminding her of her failures. Her weaknesses. Petty emotions that implore her to dive her hands into Vera, to pull apart her ribs like butterfly wings, and to sink her teeth into her deputy's still beating heart. Joan should not be doing _this_ , but she does **this** regardless.

A finger traces her cupid's bow. Vera tastes well worn leather and kisses the glove. Again, there's a slip of tongue. She tastes the burn of vodka accompanied by water. Vera closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Listens to the pitter-patter of the rain. It calms her. Reminds her of her kindred tears.

“Keep your hands on the glass, Vera.”

At last, Joan speaks. Her tone is no-nonsense, an automaton offering direction. Vera seizes opportunity by obeying. Heat fans across her chest. A schoolgirl's blush reddens her face. Her ruddy cheek presses further into the windowpane. Her spine arches when she feels the warm and familiar gloved hand slither lower. She welcomes it. She welcomes Joan into her twisted, little doe's heart. Her ironed skirt hitches around her trim waist, the stockings falling down with little protest. Joan's fingers work the sore, tense muscles of her thigh. She cups her buttocks, squeezing in silent appreciation.

Vera wants to say, ' Make this more meaningful. Take me to your bed. ' Somehow, the words die as they always do. They're trapped within Wentworth without a home in sight. A shaky breath escapes her. Consumes her. Lace falls to the ground, nude from the waist down. Somehow, she feels more exposed like this. Her bra is a coffin for her body, squeezing and holding onto her breasts.

Stroking her swollen lips, the tantalizing coasting motion of Joan's knuckles causes Vera to nearly double over. Undeniably, she's aroused. She's wet and opens up so beautifully; in this way, she is like a gift. With the desperation of a housewife, she bites down on her lip to keep from crying out. Poor Vera contradicts herself.

“More, more, please.”

It's a softly sung song.

Merciful Joan indulges her. Spreads her open. Begins to fuck her slowly and already, already, Vera is falling apart. Her ankles are weak, cheap elastic that wobbles and bends. She can hardly hold herself up. There's a fire in her belly and a build up that doesn't quite reach a climax. Not yet.

This is how it feels to be needed, Vera thinks. To be used is to feel. This is the equation that plays in her head. It must mean something. It must.

“I want to see you, taste you, _feel_ you.”

She's babbling, a victim to the sensation.

Joan chuckles.

“Another time,” she humors Vera with small talk.

Barely able to stand upright, her hands slide down.

With a pleading look, Vera bucks her hips. For once in her life, Joan hesitates. Her wrist locks into place. That hesitation would be lethal on the field and would result in the destruction of something so beautiful. Merciless Joan stops her sweet ministrations, her knowledgeable orchestrations. Colder than ice, she stops. Vera moans, a forlorn sound wretched from her throat.

Vera wants to be loved. That makes her weak.

By proxy, does that make Joan weak for indulging the woman? By entertaining whatever fleeting, emotional fancy she has been experiencing? No, it makes her strong. Fortified. She knows what she's doing. She is building trust in the name of the greater good. Nothing else, nothing more.

Still, she finds herself planting a kiss on Vera's neck. She watches the younger woman's head roll to the side, her curls pulling free from the bun she fussed with all morning. Joan's lips scrape Vera's neck where she tastes salt like a martyr's tears. Where she tastes soap and a hint of perfume. Where she tastes the sun imbued in another woman's skin. It's a sin.

To be this close. To think these things.

So, Joan distracts herself. She pretends this is a scenario in which she's playing the cello. She's tuning the fine instrument, careful as to avoid stressing the strings. She caresses and she strokes. Soft touches that leave Vera panting with her fists thundering against the window. She rides the fingers that find their way inside.

Did Joan touch herself in this way? It seems too holy to dwell upon, a sanctity that Vera, herself, could never try to touch. But if you're not supposed to create false idols, then what the hell is she doing here?

This vicious, fucked up cycle is bound to repeat itself.

The heel of Joan's palm creates a delicious friction, rubbing into her clit so that she can forget these thoughts that hang over her. Those fingers – Joan's fingers – fuck her into oblivion, fuck her with a smooth rhythm that matches the rain slithering down the window. Vera's forehead rests against the cool glass. She squirms her hips when Joan pushes deeper inside, claws and tears her apart until she almost screeches when she cums. Her body shudders and throbs and convulses in a tortured dance. Her sounds swallowed by the Governor herself. Joan swallows Vera's moans and screams that taste like broken glass coated in honey.

Vera is too sweet for her.

Really, she is.

 


End file.
